“But that’s not fair on you. Not with Beth gone and Izzy disappearing as soon as we got back.”
Margery waved a hand.
“But—”
“Go on now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Alice glanced at her to check that she meant it, then gathered up her things and whooped as she raced down the steps. “I probably smell like a cowboy again,” she warned, as she climbed into the passenger side and kissed her husband’s cheek.
He grinned. “Why do you think I’ve got the top open?” He reversed into a speedy three-point turn, causing the dust to fly up in the road, and Alice squealed as they roared toward home.
* * *
• • •
He was not a mule prone to exaggerated shows of temper or high emotion, but Margery rode Charley home at a slow walk. He had worked hard and she was in no hurry. She sighed, thinking of the day. A flighty Englishwoman who knew nothing of the area, whom the mountain people might not trust, and would probably be pulled away by that braying blowhard Mr. Van Cleve, and a girl who could barely walk, couldn’t ride and didn’t want to be there. Beth worked when she could but her family would need her for the harvest during much of September. Hardly the most auspicious start to a traveling library. She wasn’t sure how long any of them would last.
They reached the broken-down barn where the trail split and she dropped her reins onto his narrow neck, knowing the mule would find his own way home. As she did, her dog, a young blue-eyed speckled hound, bolted toward her, his tail clamped between his legs and his tongue lolling in his delight to see her. “What in heck are you doing out here, Bluey boy? Huh? Why aren’t you in the yard?”
She reached the small paddock gate and dismounted, noting that the ache in her lower back and shoulders probably owed more to hoisting Izzy Brady on and off a horse than any real distance she had traveled. The dog bounded around her, only settling when she ruffled his neck between her hands and confirmed that yes, he was a good boy, yes, he was, at which point he raced back into the house. She released the mule, watching as Charley dropped to the ground, folding his knees under him, then rocking backward and forward in the dirt with a satisfied groan.
She didn’t blame him: her own feet were heavy as she made her way up the steps. She reached for the door, then stopped. The latch was off. She stared at it for a moment, thinking, then walked quietly to the empty barrel at the side of the barn where she kept her spare rifle under a piece of sacking. Alert now, she lifted the safety catch and raised it to her shoulder. Then she tiptoed back up the steps, took a breath, and quietly hooked the door open with the toe of her boot.
“Who’s there?”
Directly across the room, Sven Gustavsson sat on her rocker, his feet up on the low table and a copy of Robinson Crusoe in his hands. He didn’t flinch, but waited a moment for her to lower the gun. He put the book carefully on the table, and rose to his feet slowly, placing his hands with almost exaggerated courtesy behind his back. She stared at him for a moment, then propped her gun against the table. “I wondered why the dog didn’t bark.”
“Yeah, well. Me and him. You know how it is.”
Bluey, that squirming traitor, was nestling under Sven’s arm now, pushing at him with his long nose, begging to be petted.
Margery took off her hat and hung it on the hook, then pushed the sweaty hair from her forehead. “Wasn’t expecting to see you.”
“You weren’t looking.”
Without meeting his eye, she moved past him to the table, where she pulled the lace cover from a jug of water and poured herself a cup.
“You not going to offer me some?”
“Never knew you to drink water before.”
“And you won’t offer me anything stronger?”
She put the cup down. “What are you doing here, Sven?”
He looked at her steadily. He was wearing a clean checked shirt and he gave off a smell of coal-tar soap and something uniquely his, something that spoke of the sulfurous smell of the mine and smoke and maleness. “I missed you.”
She felt something give a little in her, and brought the cup to her lips to